


Love Me, Hate Me

by DarthSuki



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Age Difference, Angry Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, If only bc Maxson is 20 and the LW is technically 28, Just a smidge in there, Pregnancy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: You never expected to return to the Capital Wasteland. Though the idea had crossed your mind a time or two over the couple years you’d spent away, you had always been busy with problems elsewhere that it seemed like a wistful fantasy of nostalgia.Suffice to say, hearing whisper and rumor about how Elder Maxson had led the Brotherhood of Steel, the knights you’d once seen as family, had put nothing short of the fires of hell into your very soul.





	Love Me, Hate Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [Iamanemotionaltimebomb](https://iamanemotionaltimebomb.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! If you would like to see more of my writing and ways to support my content, please check out my tumblr writing blog at [Darthwritings](https://darthwritings.tumblr.com/).

 

Fury all but seethes through your teeth as words, spitting with fire and rage that you cannot hope to hold back--with the red coloring your vision, you hardly bother censoring an ounce of what traps you, ensnares you in it’s burning grip.

“You have destroyed everything Lyons had stood for!” 

You approach the man with stilted steps, feeling one of your fists shake as the urge to punch him bubbles up with all the same ferocity as your anger. 

Maxson, the boy now a man, he stares at you with a cold look that would chill you to your very bones if you hadn’t otherwise been a forest fire of emotions. It does nothing to halt your thoughts or silence your words, but it reminds you in flashes of the boy you had once known so many years ago.

“I did what was best for the brotherhood,” Maxson says, his tone calm but the tension in his face giving every hint of himself away. “I chose strength and loyalty over the weakness of one man’s heart--to stand by the creed that makes us strong!” 

You can see him biting at the inside of his cheek; it seems he never let go of that little tick of his.

After a breath you chance another step forward, closer, close enough that you honestly could get one good punch in before a knight would hear the commotion and come to restrain you.

Knights that likely never knew of Elder Lyons and what he did--what his daughter did--what they  _ could _ have continued to do for the Brotherhood of Steel. They’ll only have known of stealing and violence and the lies told to them by their mentors, never the reality of what it means to fight for people instead of technology, to do anything but die for an ideology that means nothing in the grand scheme of the world.

You are close enough to punch him. There’s enough anger to will your fist forward, and it wouldn’t have been the first time you’d given a hook to someone--the years away from the Capital Wasteland had done plenty to improve your skills and strength. 

You reach your hands out, grab Maxson’s stupid fucking coat and drag him forward with the intention to snarl, to scream, to let out your anger and frustration in tangible ways that he can understand.

But when you drew him close, he drew you closer still--you feel his hands on your shoulders tug you forward into a sudden, emotion-swirling kiss.

And everything seemed to stop.

* * *

You never expected to return to the Capital Wasteland. Though the idea had crossed your mind a time or two over the couple years you’d spent away, you had always been busy with problems elsewhere that it seemed like a wistful fantasy of nostalgia.

It seemed everywhere had their own share of issues to deal with. Despite the different faces and places, the issues always seemed the same: greed, suffering, secrets--you never had intentions of setting out on the road and fixing up community after community, but intentions rarely mattered for much.

Caesar’s Legion to the West. Though you knew of the forward rampage the madman was making for California, there were a number of towns and places plagued by his dictatorship. You did your best to lend aid to each one you encountered, quickly earning yourself a reputation among the army that mirrored what you’d been known as elsewhere.

The Lone Wanderer.

One thing led to another, and then another, and you finally wandered your way back East--right back to the Capital Wasteland of where you spent your first 18 years of life--and learned much of what you needed to keep you alive for more than a decade after that.

When you had come upon the familiar lands again, it wasn’t so much excitement that filled your veins as it was simple happiness--the kind that takes a person when they look upon an old home, discover a childhood toy. It does not fix problems or renew their outlook, but it serves to anchor them.

Most of it was the same as it had been. Many communities were still thriving as they had been when you left, a bag on your shoulders and a will to help people strong and sound in your thoughts.

But some of it was far from what you remember.

Some of it more hard-hitting than others.

Because when you learned of what had happened to the Brotherhood, to Elder Lyons and Sarah Lyons--

Well.

Suffice to say, hearing whisper and rumor about how Elder Maxson had led the knights you’d once seen as family had put nothing short of the fires of hell into your very soul. Everything that the former elders had done were wiped away, their names tarnished and their attempt for peace and protection to the people of the capital wasteland little more than a footnote on a forgotten holotape.

To learn that Maxson had done this left you raging with anger, not a soul could have stopped you when you searched out their headquarters and, over a week of near-constant travel, found them.

Oh, you fucking  _ found _ them.

You felt only a flicker of remorse for the young boy who had to deal with you, to send the message of your arrival to  _ Elder _ Maxson.

Elder fucking Maxson. He was only 20 goddamn years old--he was a  _ child _ when you were last in the Capital Wasteland, you  _ both _ were.

Still trying to figure out how to live in a world of pain and suffering, still trying to cling to each and every little thing that provided hope.

That same little squire from a decade ago stood before you once again, a man of 20, the new Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel; the one who had betrayed everything that the Lyons had done.

And you. Were. Furious.

* * *

 

Anger and passion, betrayal and pain, care and nostalgia--the emotions swirled inside of your stomach like a churning storm out at sea, leaving you at the mercy of grabbing hands and fingers, mashing lips and teeth and instinct beyond what you thought was even possible for a human being to encapsulate.

Guilt fell somewhere between it all, hiding away in the cracks of your sanity left forgotten by the anger blazing through. Elder Maxson was once just  _ Arthur Maxson _ . A boy. An innocent kid who wanted to help people and make the world a better place

And now he was aged beyond what the years had done, bitter with the world and obsessed with an ideal that would force the Brotherhood into the dirt if it didn’t change, if what the Lyons had done was not forgotten and hidden away.

“I fucking hate you,” you whisper against his lips, the words hot and passionate by more emotions than you could count. “You’ve put the Brotherhood to a course of  _ ruin _ .”

How didn’t he see that?

Maxson didn’t respond to the accusation, but you can feel his hands move and grip tight around your hips. The pressure is so firm that it’s  _ almost _ painful, even through the layers of leather armor. He’s grown tall, a towering bear of a man that fills almost every whisper and story told about his strength. How this man grew from such a boy you will never know--and perhaps things were better that way.

He held you tight in turn, pulling your body to his until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. Each kiss was hard, so hard that you could feel the clack of teeth and the scratch of his beard against your face. You could barely take in a breath in between it all.

Lust begins to course through your veins when he starts to pull at the straps and buckles holding the armor tight against your body. Even before you have the chance to say something he already has several of them ripped off with a callous sense of guilt behind each motion--you can hear the tink of metal as buttons and thensome fall to the floor at your feet.

“You fucker,” you growl against his lips, trying desperately to tug at his coat in kind. Maxson doesn’t give you the moment to continue your stream of cursing as he captures your lips in a desperate, starving kiss. 

It’s sloppy and wet and with more than a hint of inexperience that reminds you how young this man is, how few years of life he’d seen before the power of elderhood had been thrust upon him--fear and anger and responsibility taking away the hope and innocence of a boy who could have been greater.

The coat over Maxson’s shoulders is thick and heavy, made with a leather and fur you can’t name. It’s hard to even shove it off of his body, but you manage at around the same time that you feel your pants, loosened from the torn belt, fall around your ankles.

Maxson makes no attempt to hide his eagerness. Calloused hands reach for your ass, fingers gripping tight around each cheek and pulling you so close that you can hardly maneuver your arms around him in kind. Even though he is still fully-clothed, the hot shape pressing desperately at the crotch of his pants is hardly a secret, his hips grinding forward so that it presses between your thighs and makes your mind whirl with lust and anger and desperate need for more.

Fuck.

The guilt starts to sear into the bottom of your stomach. It mixes in with the lust and the need until it’s imperceivable what feeling is which. 

It’s in that confusion where you feel Maxson’s hands grip tighter still against your skin, hauling you up and against his body with the same ease of picking up a stuffed animal. You’d be lying to say it didn’t arouse you. The strength in his arms and the power of his hands, the desperate sound of his growling vibrating against your lips. Through all your anger and hate there’s something else at the base of your stomach, something hammering in the center of your chest--

But you ignore it for now.

Instead all you can do is feel the way the man moves the two of you, shuffling to the nearest wall where he slams you back against cold metal and presses his hips forward without an ounce of mercy.

“Be fuckin’ careful,” You try to say, though Maxson merely catches your words in his mouth, tongue pressing eagerly and forcefully between your lips. The kiss all but steals away your breath, head feeling light and body practically shaking before Maxson’s face finally draws back enough that you can hear his near-snarling words of desire.

“You’ve been through worse,” he says--and it’s true. You’d dealt with bullets and knives, gashes and punctures, a host of injuries that would make a lesser person squirm. You feel the man breath against the skin of your neck as he shifts, just enough so that his hands are at your hips and his fingers are curling around the thin bands of your underwear--

And then he rips them off of you, not an ounce of care nor remorse in the motion.

Anger can come later, along with every other emotion outside of the raw primal instinct fueling the two of you onward. You cant your hips forward, tilting them just right against the hot pressure of the man’s cock all but straining against the fabric of his pants.

He growls again in your ear. You feel the scratch of his beard against your skin as his face turns and his lips find the pulse of your neck. He sucks a mark onto your skin before you have the mind or sense to stop him--and that’s even assuming if you even  _ want _ to stop him at this point.

Movement is a blur, you’re able to notice it with the same amount of focus you have over your own thoughts (which is none). By the time you’re taking in a cold breath of air to fill your lungs and glancing your eyes over what of Maxson you can see, the man is half-naked himself, coat forgotten on the floor around his feet, pants and thensome shoved to his knees so that his cock bobs heavy and flushed between his hips and the growing heat of your cunt.

There’s little care or consideration as the two of you join. One moment you feel him grinding the shaft of his cock between the wet folds of your heat, and the next you feel Maxson shifting, pressing the head against your entrance and sliding as deep as he can. In one smooth motion he’s balls-deep in you and your mind all but melts at how he opens you up--it hurts so  _ good _ that your hands reach forward and grasp desperately at the man’s shoulders so that you can meet in another starving, passionate kiss.

Though Maxson moves with lust in each shift of his hips, you can still feel the faintest whisper of inexperience in how he holds you, how he kisses you, how he shudders with each retreat of his cock from your tight heat--as if it’s a pleasure he’s yet all that accustomed to.

You hate it.

You love it.

The feelings fight in your chest as you indulge regardless, spurring the man on with hisses and scratching fingernails over whatever of his shoulders you can reach. Deeper and deeper, there’s no end to the lust boiling in your stomach--you feel like an animal in heat, wanting nothing more than to feel the searing satisfaction of his release filling you so much that it drips down your thighs and leaves you exhausted.

It doesn’t take very long for the two of you to get close to the edge. 

Growling words of desperation mixed with rutting hips, scratching nails, biting kisses; there was no hope for either of you from the moment your lips first met. Without a care of the noise or the mess you race towards your end, seeking out the furious pleasure coursing through every inch of your body.

“Fill me up,” you hiss lowly, nipping at Maxson’s lips. “Make me drip when you’re done.”

You feel the man shudder against you, his cock hitting deep in your body, rubbing against every inch of your channel that makes lights flash behind your eyes. 

“Make you have my child,” the elder continues, tone strained and voice barely more than a husky whisper. He seems to enjoy the words tumbling from his lips because you can feel the way his hands grip tighter still, how his thrusts start to lose rhythm. “Fill you up so full you’ll never want to leave again.”

With those words on his lips, you feel Maxson orgasm against you. You feel the shudder of his body, the shake of his hands, the throb of his cock and the heat all but bloom within you. It doesn’t take more than a few moments more before your pleasure comes cresting soon after, a rampant build-up of need and want and heat and a million things more that leave you breathless and straining against him, hissing your desire with no shame filtering your words as you all but command him to keep going--harder, deeper, faster--until every last ounce of euphoria has been all but literally fucked from your body.

And then it’s over.

The haze of lust is gone, or at least muted to a degree that you can think again. It clings to your mind and body like wet leather, but you find yourself comfortable in Maxson’s arms. He holds you up and against his body even when he could have simply dropped you, the two of you moving back into the anger and outrage of minutes before.

You both could have continued to yell, but silence is what fills the air. 

His face is tucked into your neck, your arms are still around his shoulders, his cock even is still snug within your body--and there is not a word spoken between you both.

But maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s too much to talk about--too many arguments to be had, too many conversations to be spoken, too many days of rumination over the fact that you are dripping with the man’s seed and that it very well might take.

You don’t feel guilty over it, oddly enough. The Capital Wasteland is still familiar, still home, still the spot where which you grew from child to adult, where you found your morals and made the promise to help those who needed it.

As you lay a hand on the elder’s cheek, you can’t help but wonder if that same little boy is somewhere inside him still--beyond the layers of anger and hatred and tainted loyalty. Maybe he’s still in there, somewhere.

So you don’t say anything, and neither does he. The two of you stay in silence, merely enjoying the warmth of one another’s bodies--everything else can happen later.

For now, you simply enjoy the feelings of his arms around you.


End file.
